


Me, Myself and I

by sexier_in_enochian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Painplay, Threesome - M/M/M, deancest, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexier_in_enochian/pseuds/sexier_in_enochian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, fresh faced in his -- well, Dad's -- brown leather jacket, is 26 years old. Just gotten his brother back by his side after Jess's death, and they were trying to find their MIA father. But that life of monsters, motels and missing fathers was suddenly interrupted by a violent shove almost ten years into the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me, Myself and I

Dean, fresh faced in his -- well, _Dad's_ \-- brown leather jacket, is 26 years old. Just gotten his brother back by his side after Jess's death, and they were trying to find their MIA father. But that life of monsters, motels and missing fathers was suddenly interrupted by a violent shove almost ten years into the future.

There are three of them at Camp Chitaqua now. Two from different versions of 2014, and him. Dean looks at them, completely haunted by who he may become in less than a decade, depending on his choices. And Sam's choices. One is broken beyond belief, has a mouth that doesn't smile and an expression hard as stone. The other is irreparable, and when _he_ smiles, it's a million times more haunting than the absence of such an expression from the other's emotionless face. Because when _he_ smiles, he's always thinking of something cruel and truly terrible. He's even more unrecognizable than the one in the green military jacket. But both of them miss the innocence and blinding spark of hope that shines in their past self's forest green eyes.

One night they drink too much; and 'accidentally' hook up. As far as the camp leader is concerned, there's nothing left to lose. The demon doesn't give a fuck, and wants to put the experience on his list of 'things many people never get to do in life.' And the younger of the three is a lightweight; only requiring a few beers, hard kisses and palms to the crotch to be, quite literally, up for it.

Young Dean is the focus, the hardened bodies of his older doubles atop and beneath him, lips placing rough kisses over his supple body, stubble leaving small, barely there scratches in their wake. The Knight of Hell moves inside him, holding his hips and gripping tight enough to leave small nail ridges when he comes, sheathed inside Dean of 2005. He makes a point of sucking Dean's skin so hard it hurts and nearly draws blood, while the green jacketed guy thrusts into his young, searing hot mouth. He makes a point of stroking through Dean's short strands gently when the inexperienced hunter hisses in pain at the hands of the merciless demon. When Black Eyes leaves to hunt for some croats to satisfy the Mark's thirst for blood, it's the apocalyptic survivor version who wraps an arm around Dean, drawing him close and stroking his shoulder silently, seeming in a state of constant deep contemplation. Dean knows he's really not as cold as he tries to appear. Unlike the Knight of Hell, he's not heartless -- he's _heartbroken_. There's a very stark difference.

Another night, the apocalyptic soldier is the center of attention. He's on his back on the rusty, rickety metal bed, his young self pressed against him as the 26 year old works their lengths in rapid unison, the demon doppelganger fucking him in hard, punishing thrusts, alternating between him and young Dean, loving the tightness the 26 year old offers. The fearless leader stays quiet as he can, breathing hard, his chest heaving and lips in a forced, hard line. He seems to not want to be heard. Dean watches him before pressing his lips to the side of his neck, just below the ear. "It's okay. You can." It takes a while and a few more kisses, but eventually the leader of the camp is crying out as he climaxes in a violent shudder all over his torso, Dean's own hot spurts mixing with it. He's pretty sure the whole camp now knows what their fearless leader sounds like when he comes, but knows for sure that no one would dare inform the trio of that. Except maybe Cas.

Deanmon doesn't let either of them fuck him. Ever. He's far too much of a junkie for power and control now, and his sub days are well and truly gone. Reminds him too much of soft, weak, human Dean. It's good enough for the little twink from 2005, and it's good enough for Mr Weight Of The World who allowed the entire planet to go to shit just because he was too weak to kill Sam, a man who obviously craves physical proximity as a replacement for the unending loneliness he feels. But Deanmon is proud of him for one thing -- at least he never allowed a goddamn _angel_ to possess him. Maybe they're not so different after all.

And when the Knight of Hell gets too volatile during their erotic activities in the dark cabin room, pulling his First Blade and slicing a deep red wound into Dean's shoulder (which is probably the single most painful thing he's ever felt so far), it's the thigh holster wearing twin who stitches him up after splashing half a bottle of whisky on it, not caring about how long it took to find that particular item on a supply run. Dean falls asleep in his arms. He wakes up in 2005, in a motel with Sam in the opposite bed next to him; and they hunt Bloody Mary that day. He knows he can never look in the mirror the same way again, and finds that smashing them feels surprisingly good. All that remains as evidence that any of it happened is a dull pain in his shoulder. Whenever Dean feels the sting, it reminds him to make a _different_ choice. He won't end up heartless -- or heartbroken.


End file.
